Chapter Twenty-Three

Tick, Tick

THE BRUISES ON Vincent’s wrist were darkening. Black and blue ovals spreading like ink in water. His wrist was swollen, and it throbbed with pain as he gripped the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking. He tried to focus on the road ahead of him, but his eyes kept falling to the marks on his skin.

James had caused these bruises.

He’d dragged him from the room like Vincent was a rag doll.

Snapped at him.

Vincent wanted to believe that James had just reacted poorly in a terrible situation. That he’d been so consumed with rage he’d killed the stocky man without even considering that his daughter had been watching. That he’d been so afraid of being caught by the police he’d been unaware of how much he’d been hurting Vincent. But, even after there was time for the shock of what they’d done to dissipate, he didn’t seem overwhelmed with emotion. In the passenger’s seat, he stared off into the distance, his expression blank. Like he hadn’t just killed a man in front of his daughter.

Ever since James had returned, Vincent thought his boyfriend had been lost in himself and, once they were free from the attackers, he’d get the old James back. But what if James hadn’t been lost? What if he’d been fighting to contain the madness and anger that was bubbling just below the surface? And, more importantly, what would happen the next time he lost control?

“Where are you going?”

Vincent jumped at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t even thought about their destination. They were on the Boulevard of the Allies, entering a world of concrete and asphalt. The same route they’d taken back from the stocky man’s house since they’d started staking it out. In the evenest voice he could muster, Vincent said, “The motel.”

James drew closer. “What?”

Vincent fought against the urge to move against the car door to create some space between them. Regardless of what he’d done, James would never intentionally hurt him. Vincent knew that. Or, at least, he told himself that. He squeezed the steering wheel. Let the pain pulse through his wrist and empty his mind. When he spoke, he made sure to be loud and clear. “The motel.”

James pulled away from him, and Vincent hated the relief that came with the distance. James said, “Pull over.”

They were on the highway. No exit in sight. Their only option was the side of the road, and there was barely enough walking room outside of the white line. Half of the car would be sticking out in the right lane, which was sure to draw attention. “Won’t that seem suspicious?”

James reached for the wheel. Vincent cut it right, and the car swerved off the road. The driver in the car behind them honked his horn before cutting into the left lane to speed past them. Vincent barely noticed. The car bounced on the uneven asphalt, kicking up dust in its wake. He pressed the brake pedal to the floor, and the car skidded to a stop.

Vincent turned on the four-way flashers.

Tick, tick.

Tick, tick.

Tick, tick.

A bomb counting down to detonation. The only other sound in the car was Vincent’s heavy, strained breaths. He stared out the windshield. The headlights illuminated a flattened pack of Marlboro Lights and an empty bottle of Pepsi, both of which floated in a puddle on the side of the road.

James placed a hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you weren’t listening.”

Vincent couldn’t stop himself from shivering under his heavy touch. The James he’d known and loved would never say such a thing. He was a healer. A guide to Vincent in the darkness of his life. Not some unstable monster who’d hurt anyone who didn’t follow his orders. Something was truly wrong with him.

James withdrew his hand. “We have to finish it.”

That was the plan. After getting the location of the other two men from the stocky man, they were going to kill them before the fuckers realized one of their own had been murdered. But nothing had gone according to plan. “We don’t even know where to find them.”

James held out a phone. “I took this from him.”

The screen was black. “What about the password? And it’s not like we can go back and get his fingerprint to unlock it.” Vincent regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. He wouldn’t put it past James to suggest breaking into the morgue if that was what it took to finish off the tall man and the blond kid.

James pressed the home button, and the phone opened. No password. He handed it to Vincent. “Find them.”

Another order.

Vincent didn’t even know where to start. The pages of apps looked like a rabbit hole they shouldn’t go down while on the side of the road. “How about we look through it when we get back to the motel?”

“No. Now,” James said.

A car rushed past them.

Vincent ignored it. A message appeared on the screen from Ashley.

Make sure she’s sleeping.

Another followed.

Needs rest if she’s gonna feel better.

The girl must be sick, which explained why she’d been left at home. And the woman’s name was Ashley. Wherever they’d been going each night, it clearly wasn’t a mother-daughter class. He prayed Ashley would be home soon for the girl’s sake. Whether or not the police had already arrived, the girl would need her mother. She’d need a lot more than that. He was tempted to message Ashley to tell her to hurry home, but James was watching the screen.

Find them.

He went to the stocky man’s text messages. Below his conversation with Ashley was a group chat with two other people. Mathew and Caleb. They were planning on “riding around” later tonight when the stocky man was free. Caleb was going to head over to Mathew’s around eight, so the stocky man should let them know when he was ready.

Their attackers.

Riding around in search of us.

The thought sent chills down his spine.

Mathew and Caleb.

He had their names.

Vincent opened his Facebook app. The stocky man looked back at him in his profile picture. The wry smile on his face didn’t look all that different from the way he had looked at them when he stepped onto the trail holding a crowbar on the night of the attack. Vincent went to his page. Gage Moulder—that was the stocky man’s name.

Vincent searched his friends for Caleb. Only one friend with the name. Caleb Peters. The blond kid. Vincent clicked on his profile picture. His hair looked white in the flash of the camera. Vincent didn’t know how he’d forgotten the kid’s strong nose and thin reptile lips. The few glimpses of the kid’s face that he’d made out in the tunnel resurfaced. The kid pointing the gun at them. Wrestling with James on the ground for the gun. Aiming the weapon at James’s chest before he shot him.

The sound of the gun firing, magnified by the tunnel walls, filled his ears.

Vincent went back to the stocky man’s friends. Searched for Mathew. He had quite a few friends with the name or slight variations. Mathew. Matty. Matt. Only one of them was bald. Mathew Baker. Vincent clicked on his picture. Ice-blue eyes. Pig nose. A tattoo on the side of his head—14/88. The tall man. The leader of the trio. The one who’d brought a crowbar down on Vincent’s skull.

Tears filled his eyes at the memories that were no longer a mystery. He could remember every moment of that night with alarming clarity. His hands were shaking so much he dropped the phone in his lap. Gage, Caleb, and Mathew attacked us. The names were far too ordinary for the terrible things their owners had done. He didn’t want to know their names. He didn’t want to know anything about them. He just wanted all of this to be over.

James took his hand. Vincent looked at him. His eyes were filled with concern. Vincent hugged him. Whatever James was going through, he loved Vincent. And despite everything that’d happened, James was right. They had to find them tonight if they were going to have any chance of killing these fuckers.

“Okay.” Vincent pulled away to dry his eyes. He couldn’t fall apart now. They didn’t have the time. He picked up the phone. “We have their names. And we know the kid is going to be at the tall man’s around eight. Now we just need to figure out where he lives.”

Naturally, neither of their addresses was in the stocky man’s contacts. There also hadn’t been any saved addresses or recent searching in his Google Maps, which made sense after Vincent thought about it since the stocky man probably didn’t need a GPS to get to his friends’ places.

But he hadn’t been driving his truck for a while. He’d been using Uber to get around for the past week. Vincent opened the app. No favorited addresses, but all his previous rides were saved under Your Trips, which provided the starting and ending points as well as the date and time of each trip. Some addresses were easy to dismiss. A beer distributor. A strip club. Random bars. The residential addresses were far more difficult. They could drive around town all night without ever knowing if any of them belonged to the tall man or the kid.

An idea came to him at the thought of them. He went back to their group chat. Scrolled through their earlier messages. If he could find a time when the stocky man had planned on going over to either of their places, then he might be able to match it to one of his Uber trips. However, they hadn’t communicated very much via text since the night the stocky man had discovered them in his backyard. On the night in question, he’d texted the group, demanding that one of them call him back immediately. According to his recent calls, the tall man had reached out to him within minutes.

With Vincent and James traveling back to their car on foot, the tall man would’ve had plenty of time to get in his matte-black truck and hightail it over to the stocky man’s place. Maybe the kid had come with him. Regardless, they’d followed Vincent and James back to their apartment, where those fuckers would later kill Tyler.

Tyler.

Another mystery of that night unraveled in his mind. When they’d confronted the stocky man, he hadn’t known James was alive. In fact, he seemed to think Vincent had an accomplice. One he’d spotted in his backyard when he’d shot at them. Then, the others went to our apartment and found Tyler. They must have thought Tyler had been helping Vincent. A mistake the stocky man had only seemed to realize when he found two masked men standing in his living room.

Vincent felt like he was going to be sick. They hadn’t just killed Tyler because they’d mistaken him for Vincent or James. They’d killed him because they thought he’d been in the stocky man’s backyard that night. Somehow, knowing how deliberate Tyler’s murder had been made it all the more apparent how much of his blood was on Vincent’s and James’s hands.

If he didn’t know us, then he’d still be alive.

“What’s wrong?” James studied whatever expression was on Vincent’s face.

Vincent almost explained it to him, but he wasn’t positive it mattered at this point. James knew their attackers had killed Tyler. Their motivation didn’t change that, and it wouldn’t help them find the others. “Nothing.”

He turned his attention back to the phone. Hours after they’d fled from the stocky man’s house, but long before he’d woken up to Sam’s screams, the stocky man had taken an Uber to an apartment building on the other side of West Oakland.

At first, the trip made no sense to Vincent. Why would he go there when the tall man had already tracked them down to the apartment? Vincent didn’t expect to find any trips that night. He’d assumed the stocky man had been forced to deal with the police while the others had hunted them down.

But he wouldn’t want to miss out on finishing them off. Not after they’d already slipped through his grasp in his own backyard. And after the police had been crawling around his house, maybe the others had been hesitant to pick him up. Maybe they’d met up at the tall man’s apartment to plan their next move, which brought them back to Vincent and James’s apartment building only hours later.

A possibility, but Vincent was reaching. He checked the other trips the stocky man had made to the address. He’d returned to the apartment building the following afternoon, right after another short call with the tall man. “I think I found something.”

Vincent told James what he’d discovered, adding, “The only problem is that we don’t know which apartment might be his.”

James didn’t seem to think that was a major hurdle. “We can scope it out when we get there. The kid isn’t supposed to be there until eight, right?”

“Yeah.” Vincent checked the time. Close to seven thirty.

“If we don’t find anything, we can follow him inside. Come on. Let’s go.”

Vincent put the address into Google Maps and got back on the road. Their ETA was seven forty-five. He hoped the kid wasn’t early.

Vincent turned around at the next exit. The apartment building was on the far side of West Oakland, and only when the neighborhoods started looking familiar did it occur to him they’d be passing within blocks of the stocky man’s house to reach their destination. The very place they’d just fled from to avoid the police who were surely swarming the area.

Shit.

There wasn’t enough time to find an alternative route. He tried to remain calm and keep his eyes peeled. He wished his old engine weren’t so damn loud so that he could listen for sirens. But, even when he neared Allequippa Street, there were no flashing police lights or bellowing sirens coming from the direction of the side street. A relief until the implications of their absence became apparent.

No one had called the police.

The thought of the girl, lying on her father’s bloody chest, pleading with his corpse to wake up, plagued his mind.

“Left here,” James said.

Vincent made a sharp, tire-screeching turn. As terrible as it was to think of her there alone, they couldn’t help her now. He had to focus on the task at hand. Her mother would be home soon, and the nonexistent police presence meant they had a far better chance of getting away with what they were about to do.

They got to the apartment building at seven forty-five on the dot. It was a modern gray structure with small square windows that looked out of place among the rotting Victorian houses around it. Vincent parked behind a line of cars on the opposite side of the street. He didn’t spot the black truck in passing, but that hardly mattered at this point.

After making sure the kid was nowhere in sight, they got out of the car. Vincent followed James up the cement steps that led to the building, his aching ribs the least of his worries. James tried the front door handle. Locked. He tried it again with no success.

To the left of the door was a metal box with six white buttons and six red labels beside them—1A, 1B, 2A, 2B, 3A, and 3B. Vincent turned to James to tell him about the door buzzer. James yanked back the handle. Grinding metal and snap, and with that, he ripped open the door.

Vincent stared at him in shock. Then horror. His rage had taken over again, and he’d somehow managed to break through a metal lock. When James faced him, his expression was unreadable. In an eerily calm voice, he said, “After you.”

Vincent hurried inside. He looked around the frame of the door in search of whatever James had just broken. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What did you do to it?”

James followed him inside. “Doesn’t matter. We have to hurry. The kid will be here soon.”

Vincent’s mind whirled. He looked around them. There was a stairwell to their left, and a short hallway leading to the first-floor apartments to their right. It wasn’t like they could go door to door, asking after their attackers without creating a whole building of witnesses. And after what’d happened with the girl, Vincent refused to involve anyone else in this mess. Not when James had a gun and anger coursing through his veins.

There were, however, six little metal mailboxes along the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Each one had a keyhole as well as a small handle. Below the boxes were the apartment numbers. James had made quick work of the door. These little boxes shouldn’t be a problem for him. “If we can check their mail, we can see who lives in each apartment.”

James started with 1A. He ripped it open with ease. There was a gas bill for Mr. and Ms. Wise. Whoever lived in 1B didn’t have any mail, and the handle for 2A came off in James’s hand. No mail for 2B. A fat envelope informed them that 3A belonged to Kevin Jackson. One to go. James tore it open. In 3B, there was a bill for Mathew Baker. The tall man.

“Got him,” James said, stuffing the letter back in the box. They attempted to make the mailboxes appear untouched. Then, they snuck back out of the building and returned to their car right before eight. Not that they were risking a run-in with the kid. He didn’t ride up to the building on his bike until a quarter after. He rushed up the front steps before calling up to the tall man, who must’ve buzzed him in. He didn’t even seem to notice that the door was broken.

A lamb to the slaughter.

Had the kid thought something similar when he and James had run into the tunnel on the night of their attack? He supposed it didn’t matter. Those fuckers had started the chain of events that had led him and James to this apartment building. They had to die. What concerned Vincent was the risk that came with this final confrontation. Two against two. He and James had the element of surprise, but they had no idea what’d be waiting for them in the apartment.

James handed him his mask. “Ready?”

Vincent put it on—it reeked of sweat. He was as ready as he’d ever be to face them.

James pulled him into his arms and squeezed him a little too tight. “It’s almost over. After we kill them, we’ll be one step closer to getting our old lives back.”

Vincent wished that were true. But even if they managed to survive the night and figure out why the police were claiming James was dead, they’d never be able to return to their old lives. James loved him, but he’d changed. Turned into someone who could snap at Vincent one minute and comfort him the next. A stranger who could be filled with enough rage to rip open a metal door and then, seconds later, calmly wave Vincent through the doorway. Wrapped in his arms, Vincent was well aware of how easily James could crush him if something set him off.

“We need to go,” Vincent told him through shallow breaths.

“We do.” James released him and put on his own mask. He led Vincent back to the building, where he held the door open for him. Vincent slipped inside, and James shut it behind them.

Whatever happened tonight, death would be joining them in apartment 3B.